


Unexpected

by ChillieBean



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 17:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17750108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillieBean/pseuds/ChillieBean
Summary: Angela steps into the courtyard, wincing at the dry, oppressive wall of heat that smacks her in the face. As quick as she can without slipping, she walks around the pool to a shaded sunlounger before she burns, lays down her towel and drops onto the seat. She picks up the drinks menu, glances over the list of cocktails, settles on a blueberry cosmopolitan, ordering it when one of the wait staff approaches before getting lost in her book.And just as things look like they’re about to get steamy, someone completely stands in her personal space. She huffs, hoping they get the hint, but when they don’t move, she rolls her eyes. “Excuse—”The words die in her throat as she settles on Moira.Moira.In a tiny black bikini.Covered in tattoos.





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> Let Moira be sexy 2k19!

“I’ll be at the pool.”

It was said quickly, over her shoulder, just as Moira was stepping into her room. Angela had waited until then intentionally, where Moira was distracted enough that she would just hum absently before locking herself away and doing whatever it is she does in there.

That way, Angela could _finally_ have a moment’s peace.

“Well, I might join you.”

Angela closes her eyes, squeezes them tight to stave off the anger. So much for that idea.

But… If Moira's coming to the pool, then that must mean she has a swimsuit _and_ brought it along.

Angela turns, curiosity getting the better of her, imagining that maybe she has a long sleeve top and swimming trunks, because surely she's going to cover up as much as possible considering Angela hasn't even seen her forearms in the years she’s been employed with Overwatch.

“Go ahead without me,” Moira says, smirking, “I will be a few minutes.”

With a curt nod, Angela turns on her heel and leaves their shared hotel room. It was bad enough that they were both invited to this conference in Melbourne, in the middle of summer and during a heatwave that's seen temperatures between 39 and 43 degrees Celcius over the last three days.

It was worse that she had to spend a whole twelve hours in transit with Moira by her side. The worst part though was that Overwatch was so cheap that they organised for her and Moira to share a room—separate bedrooms, thankfully, but still the same room.

Not that Moira has especially been in her hair these last three days. Moira, thankfully again, likes to keep to herself, retreating back to her room when she’s not discussing or collaborating or mingling with the other attendees of this conference.

But it’s the fact that Moira is here at _this_ conference, showcasing tissue regeneration as a means of widespread treatment of patients from burns to disease, that is the real issue. It makes sense for Angela to be here, she invented the caduceus staff and it’s revolutionised treatment in a combat setting. Granted, the technology is patented to Overwatch, but she _finally_ has the approval to present it and its results, and hopefully, the technology will be in hospitals worldwide.

Moira is here because one of her projects is looking into altering DNA to combat disease. Something different to CRISPR/Cas9 gene editing which has been deemed unethical on human patients. It’s secretive, _whatever_ it is, she is referring to it as ‘treatment x’ and it has everyone excited. More excited than they are about caduceus technology, more excited than anyone has any right to be about laboratory research.    

Angela will be the first to admit that jealousy’s green ugly head has been raised, and she will be the first to admit that instead of attending the afternoon’s post-conference party, she will be sitting beside the pool with the fruitiest cocktail she can get in one hand, James Miller’s latest erotic novel in the other, because she has fucking earned this break before they fly back to Zürich tomorrow.

It would be perfect if Moira weren’t coming along, but at least Angela can tune her out with the sweet and brilliant imagery Miller will be providing her in a mere manner of minutes.

Angela takes the elevator to the ground floor and steps into the courtyard, wincing at the dry, oppressive wall of heat that smacks her in the face. As quick as she can without slipping, she walks around the pool to a shaded sunlounger before she burns, lays down her towel and drops onto the seat. She picks up the drinks menu, glances over the list of cocktails, settles on a blueberry cosmopolitan, ordering it when one of the wait staff approaches before getting lost in her book.

And just as things look like they’re about to get steamy, someone completely stands in her personal space. She practically has an ass in her face and she huffs, hoping they get the hint, but when they don’t move, she rolls her eyes. “Excuse—”

The words die in her throat as she settles on Moira.

Moira.

In a tiny black bikini.

Covered in tattoos.

Well. covered is generous, but there are three that she can spot already. The wing covering her left bicep, from her elbow to her shoulder, is the most notable, and there’s an eagle on her calf. She’s got one on her lower back, and Angela can’t help but smile because Moira has a tramp stamp and she can’t wait to relay that knowledge back to the gang. When she turns, though, it’s not _just_ a tramp stamp, no, it’s an owl in flight, talons out like it is ready to strike at some innocent prey.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Angela’s eyes snap to meet Moira’s, she is smiling almost slyly as she looks over her shoulder. “No,” Angela says, turning her attention back to her book. “It is nothing.”

“All right,” Moira replies, placing her towel down on the sunlounger before walking around the pool.

Angela can’t help but look over the top of her book. Moira has a matching wing tattoo on her right bicep. She never took Moira for a bird lover—nor a swimmer, as she flawlessly dives into the pool without making so much of a splash, before breaking out into freestyle laps.

Moira has other tattoos that Angela can’t get a good look at, one above her left breast, another just on her right shoulder, and if Angela stares any longer she’s going to be pulled up on it.

Angela busies herself with her book, doing her best to ignore Moira swimming, even though she cannot help but steal a couple of glances because for the first time in _ever_ Moira is showing off skin. She practically lives in her lab coat, she wears slacks and a long sleeve shirt with a tie every moment of every day despite the weather or occasion, and she’s heard Jesse joke that underneath it all she has no body, no figure, that her clothes _are_ her skin.

Well, that is absolutely not the case.

Moira effortlessly lifts herself out of the pool, and Angela can see that she has quite the bit of muscle mass to her, too. When does she find the time to work out? She's always first in the lab and last to leave.

As Moira approaches, hair slicked back, little rivulets of water dripping down her chest and abdomen, Angela notices another tattoo, smaller, just above her hip, a vulture—

“How is your drink?”

“Good!” Angela blurts, gaze snapping to her book because _of course_ she got caught staring again.

“What is it?”

“Blueberry cosmopolitan.” Angela certainly hopes her cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.

“I might get one, too,” she says, and Angela glances at her as she turns, revealing the tattoo on her shoulder, a bird Angela doesn't recognise, all she knows is that it is in a striking pose like the owl and also has large talons.

Moira gives her order to the waitperson before adjusting the lounge to a full reclining position and lying on her back. Despite being in the sun, she’s covered in gooseflesh, her nipples are hard too—

Angela physically turns away from Moira as much as she can without being completely standoffish because she will _not_ check out Moira of all people. She's in no way attracted to her, has never, _ever_ wanted her in any way, shape or form. She blames the book, ultimately, it planted the seeds of arousal in her mind and is translating it to Moira because she’s in a fucking _bikini_ of all things, baking under the harsh Australian sun.

“I hope you are wearing sun protection,” Angela says, completely without thinking. Great, she’ll just let Moira know she was staring. Perfect.

“Of course. You know how pale my skin is, how easily I burn. I am not stupid.”

“Wasn’t saying you were,” Angela retorts, looking at her, and it is taking an amazing amount of willpower not to take a peek at her nipples again.

Moira merely shrugs and closes her eyes, and Angela lets out a breath she didn’t even realise she was holding. She gives in, glances down, notes that her nipples aren’t erect before catching that final tattoo on her breast, and it’s a falcon, she’s sure, and the realisation comes crashing down about what all of these birds have in common: they’re birds of prey, and they certainly suit her personality to a tee.

She flits between the falcon, the vulture, and the wing on her bicep, looking away when Moira rolls onto her stomach. Now greeted with the owl and the other bird on her back, she can’t help but study them, appreciating the intricate detail of the tattoos.

And she cannot help it when her eyes trail down further to look at the eagle, glancing at the curve of her ass— _she has an ass_ —and just how small the bikini is, it's showing off more skin than it's hiding—

“Take a picture,” Moira says, and Angela looks away so fast, she practically presses her face into her open book in a futile attempt to pretend she was reading, “it’ll last longer.”

Well. Fuck.

There's no going back now. Angela picks up her drink, downs it in a manner of three large gulps, stands, grabs her towel and leaves. She can't stay here, relax by the pool with Moira knowing she was checking her out, and anger starts to rise when she hears Moira’s distant laugh.

She takes the elevator back to her room, heading straight for the balcony. It might not be the same, but at least it's outside.

And she scoffs when she sees Moira below, giving a little wave when they make eye contact.

She turns her back on Moira now, opens her book and reads.

But no matter how much she tries to lose herself in the book, all she can see in her mind is Moira in her tiny bikini.

**Author's Note:**

> Angela: Stupid sexy Moira!
> 
> Inspired by the lady I saw by the pool in her little black bikini, short red hair and some of these tattoos: the wings on her biceps, the owl and the eagle. There were more but couldn't get a good look at them.
> 
> She was the living embodiment of Moira and I was all *heart eyes motherfucker*
> 
> ...And I got caught staring. Multiple times.
> 
> Whoops.
> 
> I'm on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/BeanChillie) Stop by for a chat!


End file.
